


Aperitif

by My_Soul_and_Perfume (orphan_account)



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Cannibalism, Depression, Dreams and Nightmares, Murder, Season 1, Self-Discovery, Self-Harm, Someone Help Will Graham, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-12
Updated: 2019-06-02
Packaged: 2019-11-15 09:06:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18070478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/My_Soul_and_Perfume
Summary: Sometimes, I wonder if it's too much to ask for bloodless dreams. If it's too much to ask for a day without the lifeless eyes of a young girl staring back at me. Daily, I'm forced to make the decision to look into the minds of killers. Killers so brutal and unapologetic, and whose legacies linger like the smell of smoke that even the hottest of showers can't even begin to wash it away.As I poise the blade over my wrist, I know this is the only way to find out.





	1. Chapter 1

You are as rare as a solstice. Your stance is as resistant as fire. I believe you may have come from Hell, wings waxy and black, with a cool detachment in your bloody eyes, and disinterest in your hot and cold words. 

There is no beauty in manipulation, Doctor Lecter. In my eyes, I can never fathom how men like you have learned to live in a world as wretched as my mind.

Nonetheless, the Minnesota bloom smells sweeter in your presence. When I open the motel door, my gloom and darkness and self-hatred dissipate, drifting in the wind like dandelions, to a faraway place. You have brought me something to eat so, courteously, I show you to the polished and sturdy, yet battered looking table to lay out utensils, plates, and coffee cups as jaw breaking as my laugh. 

I keep the curtains drawn. We dine in low chairs shrouded by darkness, though I can tell you crave the sun. You will learn, however, never to expect to be in the light in my company. I have pale skin, coarse like sandpaper, and you have skin as smooth as gel. You will, or have already seen, how these imbalances will never stand on a pedestal like statues. Equals.

So save yourself while you can. Don't bother delving further into this darkness. It'll only destroy you.

* * *

My bedroom on the first floor of my house overlooks a black forest pushed miles back by a dry, grassy field. If a fire were to burn here, I would die. A bloody carcass ravaged by flame. I write about this in my journal. It's a perfect outlet for my fears, I think. Highly appropriate for my macabre mind.

Of course, the pen and journal are only metaphors. There is no journal into which I etch my thoughts. Only a sharp blade and my itching skin. I observe my body becoming a mural of scars in the mirror, and my reflection become more of a skeleton as the days go by.

Oh, my body sings at the notion of death. Do I crave it? Do I seek it? Should I embrace it? These are the thoughts that make my heart race with terror and anticipation. My hands are never still. They itch to fight off the bloody, hungry maw of the beast I call Midnight- and yet I still lean into its fur and clutch onto it for dear life. 

Sometimes, I wonder if it's too much to ask for bloodless dreams. If it's too much to ask for a day without the lifeless eyes of a young boy or girl staring back at me. Every day, I'm forced to make the decision to look into the minds of killers. Killers so brutal and unapologetic and whose legacies linger like the smell of smoke that even the hottest of showers can't even begin to wash away the smell. Today, I let the droplets cascade freely down my skin. They are sparkling stars in a moving body of steam. Gradually, my muscles loosen, my jaw slackens, my fingers unfurl from their tight fists. I tilt my head to let the water wash over my weary face. It's warm and pleasant and eases the pounding in my skull.

I can't stop seeing  _her_. That girl, posed oh-so-delicately, yet so brutally, on that stag's velvet antlers. Still in her white nightgown and suspended by the wind, thin and frail. Her eyes were wide open. Her head was tipped toward the sun. It was almost cruel. Death took her by surprise, but paradise was waiting for her in the light. She just needed to accept it. Needed to give in.

White and black. They mean two different things. The bride, all pure and unblemished, must marry herself to the sleuth and mysterious void. The groom must accept her gentility in turn, for he cannot deny the gift. 

But this killer didn't see his victims as gifts. Merely a specimen to exact his unadulterated hate. Why did he choose her? What made her so interesting? What lies beneath the surface?

Numbly, I wrap my hands around my biceps and squeeze. What lies beneath me? Who am I, truly, underneath this skin?

As I poise the blade over my wrist, I know this is the only way to find out. 

My body weeps crimson tears of anguish as they fall into the tub, one by one, like rain. 

* * *

I kill a man and admit feeling powerful doing it.

_Bang!_

His body drops to the floor.

_Bang!_

His blood sprays my face, sticky with a coppery smell.

_Bang!_

He smiles as I lower the gun. His eyes fade to grey.

I dream of killing him, a moving target in a black hole, choking, feeling the impact of bullets rattle my teeth. Jack and Alan mercifully, vainly, refer me to you, Doctor Lecter. You know why and make me confess.

"I liked killing Hobbs."

"God's terrific. He dropped a church room on 34 of his worshippers last Wednesday night in Texas while they sang a hymn."

"And did God feel good about that?"

"He felt powerful."

Expect, when someone has power, they're bound to damage things. People. Ruin beauty with the punch of a single finger. Forgiveness is not in God's favor, I'm afraid. Because of Him, love is hatred, reflections are lies, and people are beasts. There is no good in this world. Not even for people like you and me.

* * *

 

* * *

When the clock strikes eight, you straighten your lapels, fix those maroon eyes to my neck and say, "May I extend an invitation to dinner?”

“What? Tonight?” 

“Tonight. I thought you might like a break from cooking for yourself and might enjoy relaxing away from home.”

I pause to gape at him.

"You can follow my car on the way," he continues, "That is, if you accept?”

The thought of a meal and some comfort is too hard to resist. “I can’t say no.”

* * *

 You serve boiled egg and soldiers—smoked, wrapped, and fried to a candied crunch. They melt on our tongues and paint them yellow. My stomach can’t take anymore after the first bite.

“How long have you been cooking for?”

“I worked in restaurants when I came of age and attempted to pursue my own business to trump the older, more traditional chefs, and dazzle the locals with a new design.”

“It went well?”

“People couldn’t hold their tongues,” you say, “and eventually, one by one, found themselves part of my restaurant. They played a large role in developing the menu.”

Below me, the glossy floors ripple, and my wine glass shivers. Vibrations shake my shins. The firefly lights twinkle soothingly, orchestrated by Tchaikovsky’s charisma and—though it sounds odd—your voice, which seems to be lower than a snow fall’s whisper. As I lick my lips, my clothes, shoes, and every other part of me gradually appears uglier in this room—this…haven.

I wonder if you care. I wonder if beauty in the flesh just as important as meticulous presentation is, or if this is how you felt that day in Minnesota in my motel room, choked by darkness and curing my starvation.

“Sounded like a perfect dream,” I respond after a moment. “Wish you'd never woken up.”

“Sometimes I do too.” You look at me with an expression I can only identify as coy. “But then we wouldn’t have met, would we?”

You’d like to think that would be a bad thing, wouldn’t it?

Little do you know the secrets I keep beneath my sleeves.

“I guess not.”

You turn your attention back to your plate. I push mine back.

Suddenly, I've lost my appetite. 

* * *

 

The dogs at home—1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7 of them—listen to my insecurities about you, about Jack, and about Abigail’s relentless behavior between us and Freddie Lounds. I take them out to do their business. The smaller dogs lick my finger tips and tremble in the moonlight. The bigger dogs scout potholes, scattered grass crops, and sniff old snow until they feel like the house is safe. I had remembered the flashlight before going out, unfortunately needing it to find Buster who had gone to chase something in the snow hills and never came back. Winston finds him under the car growling yet unhurt from what the light reveals.

“Good boy, Winston.”

(The night I had found Winston, I met you. First: running along, things to do, collared to my duties. Then: a drive-by stinking of treats and the opportunity for companionship. This is what I offer my dogs, and what you are curiously trying to offer me. You pursue me _constantly_ , even knowing how much I despise you.)

Yet, even in my nightmares this…dark energy controls me. I am in Minnesota, you and I sitting adjacent to each other—only this time the gaping door does not expel my darkness, nor are you cloaked in shadows. It is just light, grace! We connect at once, and Jack is delighted and I am invited over for dinner…only to realize as I open my mouth to join you in the aperitif…that my head and heart lay as centerpieces in the middle of the table—we aren’t in Minnesota anymore.

Abigail has a hunting knife clutched to her chest, occupying the once vacant head of the table where I used to sit. She asks me what I see. I say that I don’t know.

She slices my neck with her hunting knife, telling me that I have just lost something important, that I am _no longer_ important, or her business. I don’t know what happened to you in the dream, but my subconscious hopes that you are right around the corner with a thermos, some food, and that organic light you always carry to banish the darkness from my feverish head when I wake up.

Of course, it’s only the dogs and I.

Sometime during the night, I vomited in my sleep, so now an orange pool of bile and the remainders of dinner swim around me, sticking to my neck and face. I prop myself up gingerly, willing the nausea away, dry swallow two aspirins, toss the sheets in the laundry, shower, and make my way down to Quantico.

“Okay, class dismissed. Everyone out. What did I just say?! Let’s go!”

It seems that the students, once again, will have a substitute for the next couple of weeks.

“You’re making it difficult to provide an education, Jack.” He’s making it even more difficult to stand on my own two feet. Before meeting him, I rode solo, but now even the minority of my schedule has begun to blur with his.

His classroom. His rules. His lecture. His material.

Another lost boy identified from evidence from the Turner home. He vanished 10 months ago.

“We’re ready to go when you are, and you’re ready to go now, so let’s go.”

The boldness of his suit tie, I notice, begins to turn red like your bloody eyes. I see Abigail’s scar wrapped around his neck.

You can’t abandon these boys. You need to bring them home, she says.

* * *

 

We—Jack, Beverly, Jimmy, Zeller, and I—fly to Reston, Virginia in a tiny jet together. The whole flight there, Christmas music plays softly through hidden speakers, and hot chocolate is poured from the sure hands of the flight attendants. And as I blind myself with cold blood, a cocktail of aspirin, and envy for companionship, their white blouses begin hypnotizing me into a state of calm. My heart rate slows. My tired eyes say goodnight. I fall asleep.

* * *

 

 _There is no Christmas_  
_Like a home Christmas_  
_With your dad and mom and sis and brother there_  
_With their hearts humming  
_ _At your homecoming_

As soon as we enter the mansion, the stench of rotting corpses hit our noses. Curious boots, blood-thirsty guns, and silent masks explore everything, leading the SWAT team deeper into the mansion’s bowels.

Flies and maggots sing with the lyrics.

Sensitive throats cough.

_And that merry yuletide spirit in the air_

Two children on the floor. Mom on the sofa, still dressed in a white gown, Dad’s legs spread before Jack and me, a hole in his head. Gifts unwrapped. A corpse in the fireplace.

All I can do is run.

* * *

 

“So, what’s your blood pressure right now?” Beverly Katz asks.

“Something dangerous. Fast. Very hard.”

“You’re running this case pretty hard too.”

“Yeah? And what does Jack think about that?”

“Honestly, I don’t think he cares. You’re just a martyr to him.”

Beverly swipes a Kleenex from her back pocket and hands it to me. When I unfold it, I find a dissolvable tablet as well. Chalky, white, and huge. Taken as discretely as possible like your therapy on a good day. Hard to swallow, bitter, and nauseating on a bad one.

“Did you find anything in there? Looked like they went overkill on the boy in the fireplace,” I ask.

“Obviously no DNA yet, but we did receive one nice little Christmas present.”

“What’s nice about it?”

“Well…okay, not nice, but _helpful_.”

“Are you going to keep goading me on, or will you get to the point sometime today?”

_You are only rude because you are trying to defend yourself, Will._

“Sorry.”

“It’s fine. They excommunicated someone from the group this time. Not sure who it is, but we have a hunch.”

“Could be how they set an example for the other boys.” I walk with Katz back towards the mansion.

“What could possibly make them want to turn on each other like that?”

Soot and squirming maggots kiss my toes, not even ten paces into the mansion. With the fireplace dead and fresh slushy setting along windows, pavement, and the patio door, a bone-deep chill sets in.

What a waste.

“We need to get Alana on this, she specializes in family affairs. I think there may be something here we can learn from, and I have a theory, but I would need her to confirm it.”

“Why don’t you tell Jack?”

“No evidence. I haven’t _seen_ anything. I need to be sure about this.”

* * *

“You don’t get rewarded for doing good,” I tell you one night, the words like ash in my mouth.  

You look at me with a lascivious look and say, “Would you like to be?”

“What use would I be if I ran to Uncle Jack for a reward every time I did something I was supposed to do?”

“Would you rather feel unappreciated? I think with you, Will, a little praise goes a long way. But you refuse to acknowledge that. Why?”

Just this once, you don’t pry as I kiss my teeth and examine the lint on my pants. It’s infuriating just how deeply you’ve gotten into my skin. _Tap. Tap. Tap._ The sound of my shoes on the floor. You sit there politely in your chair.  Are you thinking about the inner machinations of my mind? Well, I’m wondering about yours. Every time I try to peel your skin back, my fingers lose their grip and it falls back into place. What have you got to hide?

More importantly, what would it cost to make you take it off? A bone for a bone? An eye for an eye? 

I can see a gleam in your eyes, bright from the adrenaline of catching live game. It was your intention to lure me into the woods, charm me with a feeding hand, make me never want to see the light of day again- wasn't it? I sniffed your scent cautiously, and now I hover over the enticing treat in the palm of your hand.

I never realized I was starving until now.

"I'm afraid our time is over, Will," you say.

As I slowly start to regain control of my senses, I become aware of the tear tracks on my face, cool when I swipe a hand across them. It feels like I’ve been robbed of something intimate, for some reason I can’t yet place. I think, for the rings of fire round your eyes, I’d give anything to see that feeding hand again. For that genuine smile hiding beneath the veil, I’d stay the night if I could.

But the dead boy’s corpse in the fireplace is begging me to go home.

“I don’t think I'll stay for dinner tonight.”

“Will you eat when you get home?”

I shake my head, mouth twisting, “Not much of an appetite.”

You eye me as I stand and grab my coat and satchel from the ground. “You are not deserving of cruelty, Will.”

I shake my head, sneering. "Goodnight, Doctor Lecter.”

“Goodnight, Will.”

I feel a trickle of fear go down my spine as I shut the door: as I trudge threw the heavy snow: as I get in my car. I think about your disappointed gaze the entire way home. 

* * *

 

There is a ring of fire that I step into every twilight. I call it Hell. In the fire is Abigail, shrouded by shadows and deceit; Jack, who often comes and goes as he pleases; the Chesapeake Ripper, whose identity is still unknown; and the strangest of all: a wiry creature of tight, black skin and antlers. Every night, gutted bodies circle round the fire, hanging from trees like carcasses; their flesh is a delicacy I binge on, and my body responds in an unusual way. Not by gagging in disgust, but _preening_ , _begging_ for more. Am I a glutton? I like to think that I’m not, but if I daily “indulge” in these delicacies, as Hannibal says, does that make it true? 

I don’t know who will save me from the ring of fire one day, but I hope they come soon. I am searching for that pale light of purity, a light that will banish the darkness around me.

The photos spread before me don’t give the answer. In fact, maybe it validates the latter. I chose to see the faces of the dead that are now seared into my memory; I chose to look past their vanity and sins. Maybe doing this brings the pieces of me together, like shards of a broken mirror—can darkness be fragmented? I don’t know. I just know that I’m imperfect.

I just know that I need to die.

* * *

 

The rose petals swirl in my teacup amidst the golden liquid. It’s like having the sun in my hand. The petals are a deep crimson, like blood. The poison apple that killed the pale beauty. I bring it to my lips, tasting its sickly-sweet flavor. It clots thickly on my tongue like blood, and it fills my throat. I can’t breathe.

You sit on the bed before me, dressed down to your boxers. Your face shows no emotion, half obscured by the sunlight. In your hands is a bundle of rope. Thick, course, crimson as well.

When I finish the drink, I hand you the teacup. I lay back, settling against the pillows. It’s like my lungs are filling up with tar, with seawater, like I’m drowning in an ocean. You tie my hands up above my head to the bed posts as I gasp and thrash. Those waxy devil wings spread from your back and your eyes glow a dark red.

You say to relax, to give myself over to it, to let it take me.

Lifting my throbbing head, my vision blurs and swirls. And then I see them.

Tears. Falling down your face. Gleaming and fleeting like a shooting star.

When I wake I’m still suffocating. The sun’s risen all orange and full, touching the landscape and illuminating the woods beyond. The shadows from the trees stretch over the grassy fields. They point in my direction, cutting right through me. You’re not going anywhere, they seem to say, Isn’t that the point? Isn’t that what you want?

Even after I manage to pry myself from their clutches and stagger into the shower later on, the question still plagues my mind.

Is this what I really want?

_To be continued..._


	2. Update!

Hey, guys! 

So the end of the school year is finally approaching and I'll be graduating in two weeks! This means that I'll have plenty of time to write and start updating regularly for you guys. Now that finals are pretty much done and I no longer have homework, I've decided to dedicate this month to purely writing, no updating, until the first of July. I hope to write several chapters for this story, as well as many others. So, I'm afraid that I'll have to say goodbye for  **one last time** until then. After that, it'll be updates galore!

If you'd like, I can start posting updates on my MCU and Hannigram tumblrs so that you know what projects I'm working on everyday. If you like the sound of this idea, please leave a comment down below.  **I will begin updating if I get at least 10 comments.**

Lastly, I really really want to bring our fandom together by extending an invitation to you through Discord! Please, if you haven't already, consider making an account and joining our little Hannigram fandom ASAP. We really want you to be a part of our community! And the same goes for MCU Stony/Stuckony. We're always looking to welcome new members <3

Well that's the end of my little announcement. I'll see you guys soon, so don't miss me too much <3 Don't forget to leave a comment down below if you want updates on tumblr, and join the Discord servers!!!!

Bye byyyeee!

 

 

**Discord Hannigram: **https://discord.gg/ZfaCtD****

**Discord MCU Stony:**  <https://discord.gg/z5WSqbS>

**Discord Stuckony:<https://discord.gg/jtXcc3n>**

**Author's Note:**

> [Find me on tumblr!](my-soul-and-perfume.tumblr.com)


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